


Need what we used to be

by crush (beekeepercain)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Early in Canon, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Minor Injuries, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8071270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/crush
Summary: There's always been that one safe place for Dean to return to after every hunt. After Stanford, after Jess, all he wants is to go back there - and it's not like Sam isn't right beside him, close enough to touch. Talking just doesn't happen to be one of his fortes.





	

* * *

 

Dean’s still sitting on the edge of the double. Sam - seems asleep enough, he decides; the kid’s got his eyes closed, and his breathing’s stable and even and deep. Didn’t even seem to care that the early morning sun’s shining right at him through the window. 

Well… he isn’t really a kid anymore. He’s got legs for miles, even now that they’re spread and bent all over the bed under the blanket he’s haphazardly thrown over himself. Broad shoulders, and bruised jaw with stubble all over it glowing like golden needles poking through his skin against the stark light from behind them, his Adam’s apple surrounded by both some faint marks of strangulation and the same kinda hair he’s got all over his face. But the stupid, curly hair does it, as do the soft, gentle eyes; for Dean, they’ve never changed. Not since he can remember - they’ve always been that shade of hazel like a jade stone with rings of flame trapped inside. Fuck. He’s heard his eyes are beautiful, but between the two of them, Sam hit the jackpot.

Dean’s sore. Bruised, like Sam is. He’s got cuts all over and skinned elbows, too. Half an arm on the left side, really; was stupid enough to land on it. He lowers himself beside his brother in a tense way, grimacing to the strain on his body before it finally lands on the mattress and feels way too damn nice for what he expected. And then Sam’s looking at him, eyes puffy and lids pink but a rather wakeful, keen focus in the way his gaze meets Dean’s.

“Thought you were sleeping,” Dean mutters, and he doesn’t quite realise he’s reached between them to tuck aside some of Sam’s curls from his forehead before he’s already done it.

Sam shivers and closes his eyes again. He stays quiet and still for a while and Dean’s almost certain his body trembles with exhaustion.

“Hey, uh. Sammy.”

He peers out of one eye, lazily; his lips part, and Dean’s eyes catch on them. He’s so tired his guts twist when a shiver of arousal runs through his body and he closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath and battles with himself. Does he want this? Right now? Is now even a good time? He doesn’t know. In the end, however, he opens his eyes again to find both of Sam’s open now, too. 

And he blushes. Fuck that.

“You still - are we - uh.”

How to ask, anyway? They’ve been together again only for some odd months. Despite some lingering looks and some tension Dean could recognise with his eyes tied, there’s been nothing to indicate things could ever go back to what they were before the school thing happened. Before Jess, the girl whose name still leaves Sam’s mouth more often in his sleep than any other half-mumbled, half-moaned word stuck in some hellish loop of a nightmare. Dean doesn’t know if he’s jealous. He probably isn’t; Sam’s his brother, and he’s never felt that way before, either. But he’s definitely something. Upset, maybe. Scared that… that maybe things just have changed, period. Maybe Sam doesn’t need him anymore. Maybe he needs to grow past it, too. But it’s been a safe haven for him for most of his life, the moments mostly spent in darkened motel rooms with their curtains triple-checked to be firmly pulled over the windows, or hastily in some wooded area on the backseat of the car where nobody can run into them, far from John’s watchful eye. After Sam went away, that was something Dean realised he needed - the safety, the comfort, of having a stable something waiting for him at the end of the road. Without Sam, all embraces went cold.

Sam shifts. He climbs up to his elbow and turns on his side, facing Dean but not looking towards him. Dean could sigh out of relief; they still read minds, it seems, him and this kid. This kid who’s taller, stronger than he is, and old enough that he could have married the woman he lost so recently it feels like a fresh wound on the both of them. He thinks for a moment, then licks his lips nervously and finally looks at Dean, although only from a lower angle, as if looking for his usual position somewhere a little below his older brother.

“Yeah?” he asks, although Dean knows he knows what to expect.

It makes wording it a little easier.

“I don’t know. I just - need. That. What we used to - uh.”

After hunts, they went there often. After John gave Dean the keys, they drove out a lot in the night, pretended to go grab a late night meal or any excuse at all to get out and have a few moments in private together. Just to feel each other alive, with both of them tracing the injuries on the other’s body to make sure none of them were deadly, as if trying to either know them as parts of the other’s body or perhaps just make them all disappear. It was so - carnal, so damn animalistic, like running purely on instinct alone; there was never any penetration, as they neither had the guts nor the necessities to go there, but they could rock and rub each other filthy and sometimes one or both would go there twice if they only had the time to do so. In those moments, Dean felt both dead and alive at once; everything culminated there, his needs and fears and desires and everything that had ever disgusted him about his own self. He came out breathing air like a newborn, yet hating each inhale that kept his heart beating, each exhale that spread that poison into his surroundings. And Sam, while underneath him, while on top of him, while sweaty and full of raw, muffled moans of pleasure or pain or whatever the fuck he felt, was his heaven; when off him, slowly pulling his clothes back on right, refusing to look at him like he’d wasted him or laughing breathlessly with him on the shotgun as they drove back home, Sam was his nemesis, the concentration of everything he’d ever done wrong in his life.

Dean thinks drugs are something like that. He’d never gone deep enough to really know, but that’s how he imagines it; that in the moment, that substance, that relief, is all a person needs. Afterwards, it’s misery and failure and self-hatred to the fullest. A never-ending circle that craves nothing but a new cycle, repetition until the body it exists within is torn to pieces.

He looks at Sam and wants to start that cycle again. Its tail end has dragged much too long. And Sam - fuck. Dean closes his eyes on instinct when Sam moves, expecting maybe a punch in the face or something else that should hurt, but instead, he’s got teeth on his neck and they don’t fucking hurt. He wishes they would, but they don’t, and then come the lips, the brush of soft wet skin over his neck, and the tip of a tongue drawing a circle over his skin before the other’s mouth retreats.

He can feel it already and he knows Sam does too - the shame, the shrill scream of guilt in the back of their heads - but he goes right in after Sam and pushes him back to the bed, joints and swollen skin be damned. And Dean’s on top of the other, and for once Sam’s not struggling; he’s kissing his shoulders, any damn stretch of skin that isn’t full of holes or hot and throbbing with broken veins and blood pooling underneath. Their hips suddenly press together, but it’s been such a fucking long time since anyone touched Dean that he lets out a gasp and jumps, and Sam chuckles and runs his hand through his hair mouthing some annoying insult that Dean’s ears refuse to pick up properly.

“Shut up, bitch,” he grunts nonetheless, and Sam bucks up again, grinding against him full and proper now.

If Dean’s not wrong, he’s grown bigger down there since he last had the fortunate-unfortunate opportunity to measure him.

He’s never sure if this is just them or if other people fuck the same way, but whenever it gets to this, they start fighting. It’s play fight, sure, and it’s clear that neither of them wants to hit where it hurts or damage the already painful parts of the other’s body, but they’re wrestling, pushing and headbutting their way through to an orgasm. Dean has to fight to get Sam’s boxer-briefs off; he gives Sam the same treatment with his own. And Sam’s palm is dead set on breaking Dean’s neck by trying to derail him off course when Dean licks a trail down his stomach to his cock, which he proudly ignores entirely as he deflects another bone-breaking push and moves to sucking his brother’s thigh instead. He smells like cheap motel soap and a laundromat, the usual cocktail of vague scents that Dean’s learned to associate with the less seen parts of him. He’s happy about that - happy that they’ve always, at least, tended to get aroused after or _in_ the shower. He doesn’t necessarily want to know how Sam would smell right after a hunt between his sweat-stained thighs. The thought makes him cough a horrified laughter and he springs back up, knocking aside the blanket.

Damn, Sam’s… toned. And yeah, bigger, too. Dean raises his brows at him.

“You know people usually go through puberty around 14, not 20?” he groans.

Sam rolls his eyes. He’s blushing, too, however; good.

“I’m too tired for this, Dean,” he says, and actually, Dean doesn’t doubt it at all.

Their eyes meet and they both catch each other smiling. It only lasts a second, but it’s been a while since they shared something like that - something quite that vulnerable and genuine.

“So - what do you like these days, college boy?”

“The… same old, I guess.”

“Oh, don’t be modest. I bet you got up to some real freaky stuff with all the other horny freshmen.”

Sam stares at him for a while with a pained expression. Then, finally, he lets out a small groan not much unlike Dean’s, and, likely instinctively, tugs the blanket back over his stiff cock to cover up.

“It was just her, really.”

“Well, don’t keep me waiting. What’d you learn?”

Their eyes meet and Sam’s downright measuring him now. Battling whether or not he can tell Dean these things, or if he even wants to. And damn, Dean wants him to want it, so he tries to appear trustworthy - not at all like the thought of teasing Sam about it would ever cross his mind.

And it wouldn’t. Not under these circumstances. But Sam’s right to be suspicious; brothers reserve that right under all conditions.

Finally, he gives up.

“Alright. She used to - she liked - to finger me. As foreplay, mostly. It was, I don’t know, she just thought it was kinda kinky.”

“It is kinda kinky, Sam. Butt-touching. I like that.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Sam sighs and looks away.

He’s thinking about her again. The downside of interrogations.

“Sammy.”

“Yeah?”

“So you got fingers. Big fucking deal. You ever had a tongue inside you?”

That catches his attention. Sam’s eyes widen a little, and he stares right at Dean, trying to find any signs of joking or teasing from him, but Dean’s just sitting there still deep in his trustworthy/not joking zone, just sincerely watching back, pretending he’s an open book.

“Uh, no,” Sam finally admits.

“No? Well - let’s fix that.”

“Whoa, whoa. Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

They keep staring at each other for a moment longer.

“You, uh. Done that to anyone before?” Sam asks.  
He’s not sold. Yet. 

Dean shrugs.  
“Figured now’s a good time to try, what with you all shower-fresh and soapy. And because your ass is probably the only part of you that isn’t covered in fist-size bruises.”

A timid grin tugs at the corner of Sam’s mouth, but only one. He looks away and his cheeks are red with arousal and embarrasment. Then, finally, he shrugs.

“If you want to put your mouth there, I guess I don’t get to complain.”

“From what I remember, you liked oral anyway,” Dean grunts and starts crawling back between Sam’s legs, all ten miles or so of them.

He slips his palms under the man’s - yeah, decidedly _not_  a kid anymore - thighs and spreads them, and Sam makes a sound and throws his arm over his eyes. He’s still shaking, those small trembles wherever his muscles tense up, and now pretty much all over that Dean’s exposed him like this. It’s oddly reminiscent of the way he used to be before school, when he was still trying to come around his courage and independence, and they were both more fumbling children than adults with intimacy. Still within some acceptable, excusable age span. Not so much now. Dean knows what he’s doing, and who he’s doing it with, and just how fucking wrong it is. Yet, this just might be the only place in the world where he feels… accepted.

Loved.

Between his own fucking brother’s legs.

“You good up there, giant?” he asks, trying to drive the gnawing fear away again.

Sam scoffs oddly, chokedly. He doesn’t lift his arm and Dean shrugs, sighing.

“Well, just don’t kick me in the face if you decide this isn’t your thing, alright?”

And he goes down, with one sore arm keeping Sam’s legs up far enough for him to be right there for his mouth, and the other framing his hole. Dean doesn’t know what he expects - he never really knew what to when he got the same treatment from that Vivienne chick in Minnesota some… has it been two years already? The only thing he remembers about her is the sharp, invasive tip of her tongue piercing him, and the huge urge to talk to Sam afterwards. Of course he didn’t - what kind of a fucking call would that be? More than anything, he was afraid Sam wouldn’t pick up. Didn’t need that kind of a moodkiller after having his ass eaten on the back of a hippie van that smelled like a whole basket of laundry left inside the washing machine for a really long time. And weed. The weed smell was probably worse than the wet laundry smell ever managed to be. 

This is better than that, Dean decides soon enough. Firstly, Sam tastes surprisingly good, a lot better than he’d ever imagine his little brother to taste like under the best of conditions. More like his own fresh saliva than musky flesh, even though the latter definitely plays a part right there with the shower-fresh and soapy mentioned before. And it’s a funny texture against his own tongue, rims and ripples and a tight hole to press against, all tied up around a tight, hot ring of muscle that contracts hard around his touches. He circles it, kisses it, sucks at it, and even though he feels it takes a long time for him to learn what he’s even remotely supposed to be doing to it, Sam isn’t complaining.

If he was shaking before, it’s nothing compared to this. Dean’s mouth makes him jump, his legs to twitch, and he’s moaning and gasping without seemingly any idea of how loud he’s being. He’s never been loud in bed before as far as Dean knows, and he likes to think he knows fairly well; Sam’s more of that… quiet, but rough type. Doing more than talking, or whatever the equivalent of sex sounds would be. He doesn’t waste his breath.

Now it’s all he seems to do.

Dean pushes his legs down some more to get his hips up, and he’s helping along, holding himself up from the bed and damn well offering it all to Dean; his hand drags over his balls, long fingers moving over his hard cock but only once before he withdraws and grabs the sheets again instead. He’s barely breathing, each inhale hitching almost painfully on the way through, and Dean lets out a breathless chuckle against his sensitive hole, driving out a pained whimper from his brother’s mouth.

“Wow,” he draws back to breathe, “Well, _someone_  here seems to like having his ass played with.”

The same hand that barely touched Sam’s cock now slaps over Dean’s hand resting over the side of his knee. Pleased, Dean moves down again, this time landing his mouth over Sam’s sac; he sucks on it, much more gently than inches underneath it, and then mouths at his shaft and drags his tongue up along it. He lets one of Sam’s legs down and pushes the other to the side, then takes his cock and slips it between his lips. His precome spreads over Dean’s tongue, and he swallows around the head before taking it in further. At the same time, he’s pressing one finger against Sam’s licked, wet hole; he can feel his pulse around the tip as he pushes it against the rim and massages it, half-heartedly imitating the movements of his own tongue, perhaps to preserve the sensation or solely because his mind already got used to the rhythm.

Sam’s like hot wax for him now. Breathless, trembling, moaning, and his arm no longer covers his eyes either: they’re shut tight, brows creased, and sweat glimmers over his forehead, sticking his dark hair onto his skin. He’s so fucking beautiful like this, and Dean’s happy at least about the fact that he can give Sam something that makes him… lose it like this, something that provides him an escape, much like Sam provides one for Dean. In that, at least, they’ve always been equal.

He sucks on the other’s cock, taking it as deep as his comfort allows, and he can feel Sam tense up trying not to rock right into his mouth, but he’s failing, if not by a whole lot; his hips are moving along with Dean’s own pace, up and down mirroring Dean’s movements on him. And he’s _leaking_ , downright just spilling over, much before his building orgasm shakes him and he finally moves to pull Dean back, to push his shoulders, trying to separate him before —

Dean just doesn’t want to budge. It’s not Sam, it’s just that he’s too damn tired to care, and too damn curious to mind it. It’s… something of a regret, really, because when Sam does come, he comes _hard._ He’s all over: his cock is way, way deeper in Dean’s mouth than Dean intended, and he’s choking on the come. Coughing and gagging into it doesn’t make it _any_  better - next, it’s in his nose, too.

He draws back, gasping, swallowing desperately to get some air through, and Sam’s right up and all over him, large palms over his face and in his hair and on his neck and over his ears and he’s repeating Dean’s name over and over again, mixing it back and forth with apologies and asking him why the hell didn’t he pull back.

And all Dean manages to do is just grin, eyes red with tears flowing down his cheeks and nose dripping, looking a lot less like the best he hoped for.

“Guess I just missed this,” he finally manages to breathe through the mess that his throat has turned into.

Or forgot how porn tends to look better than it really is. Either or. He swallows once more and leaves his lips parted, feeling them tingle and swell from friction. He’s still just breathing when Sam bends down and kisses him on the lips, his own caressing the raw skin over and around Dean’s mouth.

They’ve never kissed on the mouth before. Ever. And yet, still, Dean doesn’t pull back - he kisses back.

“I missed you, too,” he confesses, so quietly that he’s probably hoping Sam doesn’t hear it at all.

“Yeah, I - you, too,” Sam mutters into his mouth.

He pulls back and ungraciously wipes his lips with his arm, apparently completely unaware of doing so. Dean tries to grimace, but all he manages is just a twitch. They watch each other for a while until Sam reaches out to wipe something off of Dean’s jaw - saliva, come, Dean doesn’t want to know - and chuckles wearily.

“So,” he says then, voice anxious but also playful, teasing, and completely void of the trauma he’s suffered, of loss and of the hunt just hours behind them now, “What’s new for you?”

A small grin manages to crawl over Dean’s lips.  
“Surprise me,” he replies with a wink and lets his back hit the mattress.

Sam’s over him in a moment, and Dean lets his warmth surround him completely.


End file.
